


gli occhi sono la finestra dell'anima

by princess_of_the_darkness



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Aziraphale is chubby and we love him, Dreams, Inspired by Christian Mythology but also not idk, M/M, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, but not really, i guess, only in the first two chapters really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 16:28:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20343151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princess_of_the_darkness/pseuds/princess_of_the_darkness
Summary: He wakes up screaming every other night. His mother worries, of course she does, but she cannot understand what’s going on. Crowley’s not sure he himself can, so he doesn’t try to make her. He wouldn’t even know where to start.OrCrowley has nightmares that don‘t want to let him go. The lines separating them from reality become more and more blurred. And suddenly there‘s a stranger in his bedroom.





	1. and while I’m away dust out the demons inside

**Author's Note:**

> Title is Italian for _the eyes are the window to the soul_ because it kinda fits the story well and I‘m a hoe for Italian :‘)
> 
> Chapter titles are from Elton John‘s I Guess That‘s Why They Call It the Blues aka The Best Song Ever Written and Composed, sorry I don‘t make the rules.
> 
> For visuals: Crowley‘s supposed to look like David Tennant in L.A. Without a Map — only with long red hair (at some point at least) and Aziraphale looks like Michael Sheen in Wilde. Baby-faced and innocent, the both of them :3

Crowley dreams of eyes. They’re everywhere. He can’t escape them.

They flutter through the air wherever his feet carry him. They swim in the same streams he crosses and watch him from the tree tops when he stumbles through the woods. They’re all unique and yet, they’re exactly the same.

They glisten in purple and red and green and yellow, reflecting light that’s at once coming from everywhere and nowhere at all. They shine bright but do nothing to illuminate the darkness that lurks at the corners, threatening to seep into Crowley’s vision. Seemingly at random, they appear and disappear again in a matter of fractured seconds, they’re solid and ethereal at the same time. Crowley tries to reach out and _feel_ them for himself, understand what they are, what they do, why they’re here, but somehow his arms are never long enough and his hands clench around nothing but cold fear and hot flashes of anticipation. They’re all _just so_ out of his reach, it’s frustrating.

Some of the eyes stare, unblinkingly. They seem to be looking right through him, observing either what’s behind him or what lies within his soul. Crowley doesn’t know which thought makes him more squeamish. He doesn’t dare turn around to check if there’s something behind his back, he doesn’t know why, but a voice is telling him not to let the eyes out of his sight. If he weren’t so terrified, he’d be scoffing at the irony. Other eyes are crying tears that sparkle like diamonds when they cling to their lashes and the biggest ones drip jet black blood all over the ground every time they blink.

He knows it’s blood because when he wakes up, his tongue lies metal-heavy in his mouth. The taste doesn’t leave him for days afterwards.

The images don’t leave his mind either. He carries them with him, takes them to school and back home again, tugs them along when he’s searching for an empty spot on the bus, makes sure not to leave them behind when he stops by Madame Tracy’s to pick up dinner for himself and his mum. They follow him through the park when he’s throwing frozen peas at unsuspecting ducks (he recently learned that feeding them bread leads to malnutrition), look over his shoulder when he’s doing homework at Anathema’s place, whisper in his ears as he’s watering the plants in the living room, creep along the walls when he’s wasting time in front of the tv.

He doesn’t tell anyone. 

What difference would it make? Nobody listens, nobody ever does. They hear what he says, the clever careful cunning tales he spins without any effort whatsoever, the words that spill from between his lips like water out of a marble fountain, but nobody. ever. listens. They all grin and laugh when they think he expects them to, they slap his shoulders in gestures that mean anything from _thank you Tony _ to _you’re a good kid Anthony, really _to _that’s a great story mate, haha, ya comin’ to Ally’s on Friday? _and they don’t listen to what’s underneath. Nobody ever has. He starts to suspect that nobody ever will.

He’s not lonely. That’s not it, _at all_. His friends are ever-present, he knows they all adore him, can’t get enough of his company. Crowley is meticulous when it comes to crafting the image of himself that everyone gets to see. Whether it’s his clothes, the way his eyes crinkle when he grins, the food he orders when others are around, the colour of the pens he takes to school, there’s not a single little thing he leaves to chance. He guesses there’s a word for it, _control freak_, and he thinks to himself that he doesn’t even mind. He’d agree, control is as important to him as breathing air is necessary and he doesn’t find anything shameful in that. He likes the company of others as well. At least that’s what he tends to tell himself. Being sociable comes easy to him. Actually _enjoying_ the notion of being sociable? Not so much.

After a while, the dreams get bigger, more elaborate. They’re so rich and full of details now, almost a fleshed-out reality of their own. But it’s a cruel one. It’s filled with eldritch creatures, with ripped-apart tentacles and wings drenched in blood, with tears in the very fabric of the universe, with decisions that are never to be made by any human being and questions that make dream-Crowley’s ears bleed when the first syllable is spoken; with the wails of damned souls and the laughter of the devil who’s torturing them. And torturing Crowley. He doesn’t know which sins he’s committed, he’s pretty sure he’s been good all his life – at least relatively speaking – but still, the devil has it out for him especially. After all, this has to be satanic punishment, doesn’t it?

He wakes up screaming every other night. His mother worries, of course she does, but she cannot understand what’s going on. Crowley’s not sure he himself can, so he doesn’t try to make her. He wouldn’t even know where to start.

_It’s just…nightmares_, he says instead. _Completely normal for my age. I looked it up. _She smiles one of those tired smiles of hers, nods, and goes back to her bed. It’s a tragedy playing out right in front of his eyes. And it’s getting ever so much closer to the final act. He can feel that there isn’t much time left for her. It’s running out faster than the sand through the plastic hourglass he still uses to make sure he brushes his teeth long enough.

There’s no need to burden her with this. She knows she’s leaving soon and it kills her even more, the idea of leaving him behind. All on his own in a world that hasn’t shifted to make space for him yet. He thinks, _maybe it never will_. _Maybe I don’t belong_.

But he does, he knows he does. There’s just a _feeling_ in his bones, a pulling downwards, down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down right to the center of the earth or even further below. It’s something that keeps him grounded, literally, but it also makes him scared to look up, at the sky. It will be stained with blood soon. Somehow, he just _knows_.

He can see the war up there. Above the earth where real life happens, where humans die and suffer and lie and steal and rape and murder and fight and drink and watch and laugh and love. Up in the sky, on top of the clouds, they just carry out their petty battles with no regards to life itself, to the beauty of free will, to the marvel that is knowing you are infinite and mortal at the same time, the knowledge that you can only walk along one single path in your whole entire life but that path, that glorious handsome brilliant path has the potential to lead you _anywhere_. Everywhere. Crowley has to sit down when he starts to think about it, or the world will never stop spinning around his head.

The night his mum passes, Crowley feels actual, real, _physical_ pain in his dream. Something is tearing his body apart from the inside while the eyes are hovering atop his head, watching, always watching him, like they’re trying to understand him in return.

He wakes up, sweat-drenched, his heart pounding in his throat, fingernails straight on their way to destroying his bedsheets and it’s- just gone. His stomach is fine. No wounds, no blood, just the phantom feeling of terror that he knows he’ll never be able to shake off again. He rubs at his eyes until they’re itching like crazy, then he falls back asleep again and the dream continues right where he’d been pulled out of it, gory and unforgiving. His throat is too sore to scream anymore.

No one would hear it anyway.


	2. and it won’t be long before you and me run

Life is different now. Of course it is.

There’s a gaping hole where a person used to be and Crowley doesn’t know if he can even begin to cope. The fact that the expectation had been building up for ages doesn’t make it any better, on the contrary. He’d known the day would come, was so very aware of it _constantly_ and yet he’s severely underprepared for it all the same. It’s not fair but he knows that life generally doesn’t tend to be. He also knows that everybody deals with losses, people being taken too early, plucked right out of a promising life and leaving behind only mourning and sadness. But he can find comfort in knowing his mum wasn’t scared of death. In fact, she always said she would embrace it, looking forward to the transition, she believed in the afterlife or some version of it. Even though he doesn’t – believe that is – he wants to imagine she’s _somewhere_ now, the happy place she’s dreamed of, whether it really is up there in the sky, hidden in the clouds, or someplace else. He wants to believe it, simply for her sake.

He moves across the country to live with his dad. The dreams stop for a while.

Seeing his dad again feels strange in every possible way. He has a girlfriend now, apparently it’s been going on for a while. _Funny he’s never mentioned her on the phone_, Crowley thinks. She’s young and smiles a lot. Like she wants to eliminate any and every bit of negative energy. She clearly feels some misplaced sense of excitement that he’s there, living with them now, but she tries so hard to get him to feel welcome and at ease that he can’t even be mad. It seems to him that she’s the type of woman who’s always wanted children and this is her way now of making that wish come true. In some way, at least. If anything, he only feels pity.

Crowley first meets her before the funeral. It’s a quiet affair, as they like to say. His mother didn’t have a lot of friends, in the end, no siblings, and her parents are long gone already. He cries his eyes out in front of her grave, his father’s hand settling on his back in what he must think of as a reassuring and comforting move but feels like hot coals burning through his clothes and skin to Crowley. His girlfriend – _call me Mary _– is keeping a respectful distance. She looks quiet and composed. Thoughtful. This must be a weird day for her. It’s a weird day for everyone.

He spots an unfamiliar figure when they’re walking back to the car. A guy across the street who’s just _staring_. Crowley feels an alien sensation in his stomach. It’s not quite dread or fear or unease, it’s more an odd sort of tug, almost magnetic, but he doesn’t know if it’s pulling him towards the guy or pushing him away in the opposite direction. There’s something curious about his appearance, his form, too. He looks translucent at the edges. A bit like a ghost or a hologram, but only if you look really closely and squint hard. Which Crowley does, once he figures there’s something off about him.

When he asks his dad if they know the guy, he just says “who?”, confused, and gets in the car. They drive away but he can still see him in the rearview mirror, standing there and still looking at them. He’s tilted his head and crossed his arms in front of his chest now. He looks like he’s trying to solve a particularly difficult puzzle.

Thinking about the stranger distracts Crowley enough to stop crying, he realises when they arrive at what he now has to consider his home. They eat dinner together, for the first time. It’s pasta, a family recipe of Mary’s. Crowley thinks she might be Italian. It’s not bad, per se. But there’s something in the aftertaste that makes Crowley vomit twenty minutes later. His dad and Mary just look at him with sad eyes and tight lips when he comes back from the bathroom, wipes his mouth on his sleeve and starts searching for a glass.

He admits defeat and Mary gets up to show him where they keep their glasses. While he’s filling it with tap water, he thinks about it, having to get used to the little things now. Like where he can find tableware. He feels like a stranger in his own skin. That night he doesn’t dream of anything. He never even ends up falling asleep.

Life slowly starts to settle again. Crowley has seven months of school left and fitting in is easy, even more smooth than he had expected it to be. He’s good with people, in his own way. _Charismatic_, some say. In kindergarten and primary school, everyone had always fought over going on playdates with him and it’s not much different now. He doesn’t mean to manipulate anyone, to make him_ like_ him, to convince them do things for him, but sometimes it just comes naturally. He tells himself he just can’t help it. Second nature or something.

He doesn’t talk about his mum to anyone he meets. When people first ask him why he moved, he makes up a story about his dad changing companies and relatives living in the area and him needing a change anyway.

That his dad works as a freelance translator is nothing anybody needs to know, now is it?

It’s not that he particularly enjoys lying to people. But most of the time it simply happens to be the easiest way to get them to start being his friends and to stop asking questions. He’d feel bad but. Somehow he just doesn’t. There might be something _morally_ wrong about telling lies in general or whatever, but is he really hurting anyone like this? Crowley doesn’t think so.

One thing he makes sure not to do is lie to his dad. Especially not about how he’s feeling. He doesn’t want to isolate himself completely but it’s hard, in a way, to not let the grief overpower everything else. He does know that life has to go on. He just isn’t quite sure in which direction.

He’s doing okay in school, all things considered. It’s not as fun anymore, though. He used to love being the smartest person in class, sometimes even knowing more than their teacher. There was a sense of power to it, like he ruled the world for a second when nobody could follow his train of thought but everyone knew his answer must be absolutely correct. Now it feels more like a chore, correcting people on their mistakes and being the only one to raise his hand at difficult questions. It’s almost like he can feel parts of his old self slipping away. Crowley’s nothing if not dramatic.

He ends up applying for a couple of universities to study English. He can’t find anything else he’s even a little bit interested in, so he figures this is what it’s going to be then. There’s a special kind of comfort in having no idea what you really want in life but still moving forward doing the next best thing you can find.

He gets accepted into all of them.

That’s when he starts having the dreams again, they’re different at first, not as sinister, barely recognizable to Crowley. They begin with voices calling out his name. One sticks out, rough, deep, rumbling, it has an ancient feel to it and sounds like it hasn’t spoken a word in a long _long_ time.

Then the eyes come back. But this time, they’re different, too. Threatening. They follow him fast now, hunting him like prey and he has no choice but to start running. The landscapes aren’t the same either, the air is heavy with damp dust and it smells like innocent blood was spilled, there’s lava and quicksand and poisonous animals and acid rain and tsunamis and hurricanes. Crowley never stays in one of these places for long, not nearly long enough to get used to the dangers. Some nights it feels like everything is happening all at once. He can never catch a breath.

He wakes up gasping and finds he’s bitten his tongue. His teeth must be stained crimson.


	3. to the place in our hearts where we hide

It’s nice, feeling like a grown-up for a change, Crowley finds. At uni he can pick and choose the people he hangs out with, not at all like school where you saw everyone every day and that was how you made friends. It’s more of a challenge now, impressing people, making them enjoy his company.

He loves it. Being a social butterfly suddenly feels exhilarating.

Quickly, his favourite thing becomes the flirting. Back in school, he’d always noticed the looks people tended to give him from time to time, girls and boys alike. And he’d liked it, he really had, but there had never been the desire to reciprocate in any way. Now there is. It’s almost a cliché, but people really do turn their heads to look at him whenever he enters a room. Especially at parties. And Crowley, he just _revels _in it. Winks at cute boys with nose rings and undercuts when they ask him to open their beer bottles for him, puts his hands on the knees of girls with severe bobs and even more severe bangs when they tell him why they’re studying History, bites his lips, flutters his lashes, carefully and deliberately runs his fingers through his hair. He recently dyed it ginger with the help of a friend and it feels like the single best decision he’s ever made. The people he ends up in bed with at the end of some of these nights seem to think the same.

Crowley loves the attention. He never initiates anything, it’s always the other person who approaches first, but once the damn is broken, his game is on. He tries not to overdo it, not to come on too strong, not to scare people off, but there’s nothing quite like seeing the effect he has on people when he gives it his all. He can make them blush the prettiest, grin the brightest, giggle the hardest and, eventually, gasp the loudest. He loves to take them apart, emotionally and physically, in any and every way he can, loves to explore every bit of their bodies he finds, loves to kiss and lick and suck and pull and push and grab. He loves to be a giver. But the taking, oh. The taking.

Watching someone go down on him, feeling their breath on his skin when they whisper _sweet nothings _in his ear, having them squeeze his arse and bite his neck, pull on his hair and hold him down when they…

It’s amazing. But it never really feels like it’s enough. When he falls asleep, afterwards, alone, the dreams come like he’s calling for them.

_Crowley’s drowning. He’s sure of it._

_He’s being pulled down, below the surface, every time he comes up for air. Everything is wet and cold, it’s like there’s a heavy cloak on top of his face. It feels like he’s forgotten how to breathe and now he’s trying his hardest to remember. But he can’t. There’s no way. _

_Something has to be wrapped around his legs, it’s squeezing his shins so tight he’s scared they’ll be numb soon. His arms already are. He tries to scream but only bubbles leave his mouth. He doesn’t even see them, just feels the ghost of their touch on his cheeks before they start to float to the top._

_It’s too dark to figure out what exactly is happening. He doesn’t know if he’d want to, even if he could. He’s never been in this kind of danger in a dream before. It always hurts, he’s always exhausted, always deadly afraid but this is the first time he feels like he’s really _about to die_. He kicks his legs harder and they get crushed even tighter. _

_STOP STRUGGLING, says a voice. Crowley knows it, has heard this exact voice in almost every dream in the last years, had it echo in his head throughout his waking hours. All the time. It usually talks about hunting, trying to find him, eating him alive if it could. He thinks he’d like to vomit. _

_JUST LET IT GO. IT WILL ALL BE FINE IF YOU JUST LET IT GO._

_Crowley doesn’t want to, he wants to keep fighting until he can’t anymore. Until all the air has left his body. He doesn’t want to become docile, this is his most private and personal space and it’s being invaded by someone, some_thing. _Every. single. night. It’s not fair. He just wants to rest. Get an actual good bit of sleep. Not this fucking bullshit horror crap out of nowhere. _

_ANTHONY. PLEASE. _

_It’s quieter now, a whisper of breath on his face and Crowley flinches back. _

_He shakes his head violently. He wants to tell the voice to stop_, _stop talking_, _stop torturing him like this, quit playing games, toying with his fears and his fucking _life_. But he can’t. He tries telepathy, this is a dream after all, so he thinks really hard about it, about being let go of, swimming upwards and breathing in again. Screams at the top of his lungs, in his head. It doesn’t seem to work. The opposite, really. It just encourages the voice to keep going. _

_ANTHONY. TONY. DON’T MAKE THIS HARDER. _

_The voice sounds like it’s begging, desperate, and almost human. But not quite. It’s more of an imitation somehow. Distorted and terrifying. _

_YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND. LET ME SHOW YOU. I NEED YOU TO _SEE.

_Crowley starts thrashing harder, he’s clawing at whatever is wrapped around his legs, shaking all over his body now, but he can feel that he’s putting the last bit of his energy into this fight. Then he just. Stops. Something’s appeared in the darkness of the water right in front of his face. He doesn’t need any light to know what it is. _

_It looks inconspicuous, just a giant blue eye blinking at him. As harmless as possible. _

_He sighs. His eyes fall shut. His mouth drops open. Then he gives in and lets himself get pulled under. _

The next thing Crowley knows is that he wakes up. He’s not alone. So he screams.


	4. and I guess that’s why they call it the blues

“What the _fuck _are you doing in my room, who are you?” Crowley asks, eyes wide, and his back hits the wall as he tries to get as far away as possible from the boy standing next to his bed.

“Anthony,” he whispers and closes his eyes. Then he smiles. “Finally.”

Crowley stares at him in disgust.

“Finally? Are you some kind of stalker? Why are you- wait. Hold on a second, you were at my _mum’s funeral_, you sick fuck, weren’t you? Who _are _you?” He scrambles closer to his pillow to get his phone into his hands, ready to call the police.

“Oh. You don’t know,” the boy says with a sad look of realisation on his face. “You haven’t felt it? Oh, I’m so, so sorry. Terribly. Is that the right word? Excuse me, I’m still trying to get used to your language.”

“_What.” _Crowley’s too dumbfounded to do anything but to keep staring, extremely confused and still a little scared that some guy apparently broke into the flat. But mostly confused.

“This must be a little strange for you, Anthony-,” the boy starts and Crowley holds up his hand to stop him.

“Crowley. Nobody calls me Anthony. And just,” he wipes a hand over his face and pushes his hair back, “just tell me what the hell is going on.”

The boy clear his throat. “I suppose it would be best if I started by introducing myself.”

Then he says his name. Crowley doesn’t understand a single syllable. “C-can you repeat that?” he asks carefully. This feels very dangerous and he knows he has to tread lightly. “I don’t think I got it.”

He says it again. Crowley’s brain feels even more like mush after the second time. It doesn’t sound like it was designed for human ears to perceive, much less for human tongues to recreate.

“_Azz´-_,” he tries. “_Azzzria. Az´ra. Az- Azira. __Phale. _Is that anywhere close?” He tries a smile, awkward and charming. The boy grins in response. His teeth look ready to sink into flesh. His lips shine a brilliant red.

“That’s perfect, _Crowley_.” He nods, more to himself, but Crowley finds there’s something hypnotic in seeing his curls bob up and down. The boy’s stunning, he realises. Classic beauty, a mix of tenderness and raw strength. It’s so, _so_ scary, too. “But my name is not important. I am a, ah, _higher being_ would be an appropriate term to use. I think here you call us angels. But it’s different from what you must think.”

His voice is remarkable. It runs deep like honey, warm and smooth, but at the same time it makes the hair at the back of Crowley’s neck stand up. Like nails on a chalkboard.

_Angels_. Yeah. Of course. Sure. Crowley scoffs. Then he starts laughing. He doesn’t know what else to do. Nothing feels real anymore.

“Uh-huh. So you’re just casually telling me that you’re an angel. Since, apparently, angels are real. Really actually real. Why not. Demons, too, perhaps? The devil? Vampires, Werewolves, Zombies? Come on, tell me what’s going on and stop this bullshit.”

Aziraphale looks disappointed. His eyes are trained on his hands. They’re pretty hands, delicate-looking and chubby like the rest of him, yet Crowley’s sure they could kill a man if they needed to. When he looks back up at Crowley, he appears amused. This seems to be almost like a game for him.

“May I?” he says, gesturing to the bed. Nothing that comes out of his mouth sounds like a question but Crowley nods anyway, dazed and curious. Aziraphale sits down. There’s barely a dip in the mattress.

“I’m telling the truth, I promise,” he murmurs, eyes focused on Crowley’s face. “No matter how unbelievable it may sound. I can- I’ll show you? If that’s alright?” Crowley wishes his question felt reassuring but instead it feels like a mere performance, put on for his sake. He’s almost sure it wouldn’t matter if he said no. That thought alarms him to no end.

Hesitantly, Aziraphale extends his hand and Crowley has to keep himself from pulling his own arm back on instinct. When they touch each other, when Aziraphale lays his fingertips on his elbow, feather-light and daisy-soft, when they’re suddenly skin to skin at this tiny, unremarkable point in space, Crowley can see. _Everything_. He can feel it, too, feel the birth of the universe, the creation of the world, the horrors that were Aziraphale’s own coming into existence, the realm of the angels that he’s only been shown glimpses of in his dreams, wars being fought in another dimension; then there’s the longing, the sadness, the terror, the anxiety, the joy of Aziraphale finding him, the agony of not knowing where to go next, the isolation in this strange human world, the overwhelming delight in finding him, again.

It hits him, _hard_. He has to steady himself with a hand on his mattress. His left eye starts twitching so he closes it and takes a deep breath.

“What _was _that?” he whispers, his eyes locked with Aziraphale’s now.

“My life,” says Aziraphale with a curious expression. “You saw it in the dreams as well, didn’t you? That’s how I came here.”

“What do you mean, that’s how you came here?”

“It’s hard to put into words. Especially your words,” he starts with a sigh. Crowley feels a bit like a child who’s asking his parents to explain something they know he won’t understand but he’s begging so hard they finally give in. “But I was your guardian. Watching you from the other side. _Protecting _your mind and soul, in a way. And you were- I could feel you pulling. _So hard_. It was like you were right there, scratching at my wings. You drew me into this world. It was- not pleasant. Painful, even. You felt that too, right? Please tell me you did.” Crowley can hear the desperation loud and clear and he’s sure it’s the same voice as in his dreams – just more human this time around. Something still feels artificial. 

“You mean in the dreams?” he asks, trying to understand. “Sure, I felt that. Every single fucking day I felt that. Or night, whatever. It killed me, you know. It hurt so much. So how can I have pulled you here? I had no idea you existed. None of this makes any sense. Are you sure _this_ isn’t a dream?”

He lets his head fall back against the wall with a thud. Aziraphale slowly reaches out and puts a hand on Crowley’s knee. It doesn’t happen again, the images, not even when he starts stroking a thumb over the patch of skin that peeks out right under the hem of Crowley’s shorts. It’s just nice. A bit of physical comfort to ground them in reality. If that’s what this is right now.

“I must confess, I don’t know any of that either.” He sounds apologetic, really. This must be just as confusing for him. The thought doesn’t help to make anything better. “I wish I did, truly. This isn’t- this kind of thing doesn’t happen, usually. I’ve never heard of it at least. I didn’t know what to do, so I just followed you and your soul that was calling out to me. I hope you can forgive me for simply barging in like this. I suppose I expected you to be more aware of it all.”

_That sounds like an accusation_, Crowley thinks and grimaces. This isn’t his fault. How could it be?

“Oh, I’m aware of it, alright,” he presses out. He’s annoyed with Aziraphale’s insinuations and so _very _tired. “I’ve been having these dreams for so long, it’s like I can’t remember a time where I didn’t. But this is ridiculous. My soul didn’t do shit.”

“Oh but it did.” Aziraphale smiles indulgingly and Crowley has a sudden urge to punch him in the jaw. That might not go over well with his hand, though. Who knows what angels’ jaws are capable of. “It’s very complicated and I myself understand very little about it. However, I think there must be some kind of _bond _between us, a link that goes beyond me guarding you from my realm. I don’t even know how that can be possible, but what I do know is that something inside of you must have been _very desperate_ for me to come to you. And now I’m here. So I’d say we just have to make the best of it, don’t we?”

Crowley realises what’s been bothering him about Aziraphale all along. He says he’s not used to human language or whatever, but he speaks like he’s done it for centuries. He looks young, probably about Crowley’s age – and pretty, _oh so pretty_ – but he _feels _much older than that, has the aura of an immortal or a time traveler, or possibly both. Could he be immortal? Can he travel through time? Crowley doesn’t want to ask because he doesn’t think he’d like the answers.

He tugs at his bottom lip. “Sorry, but how can you be so _nonchalant_ about all this? Somehow we’re the first ones to have this weird kind of connection and you just, what_, crossed realms_, or _travelled through space_, and _across dimensions_ to get here? That sounds like a fantasy story. And then you think that’s okay? To show up here like this and expect me to be fine and accept all this crap? I’ve been having nightmares about you for _years. _The last thing I wanted was to find out you’re real.”

Aziraphale nods. There’s a particular kind of look on his face, sorry yet unapologetic. Full of sympathy and schadenfreude at the same time.

“I know.” He looks down at his hands again. It makes him look innocent, pure. Crowley doesn’t trust it one bit. “But none of that is my fault, either. I felt the same things as you did, sometimes even amplified, all that power flowing between the two of us. I already asked you to forgive me for this, I don’t know what else I should do. But I _know_ that I couldn’t have stayed in my world, it would have ripped me apart. Destroyed my whole being. Maybe it was selfish but there was nothing else I could have done.”

Crowley thinks back to the images of some of his dreams. The ones filled with death and misery. With gore and horror. With destruction and cruelty. He remembers seeing wings covered in blood, dripping with it, pieces of monstrous creatures lying on the ground, looking like the earth after a natural disaster. Maybe he would have been that disaster. The thought scares him. But there’s something else behind it. He _could_ have been that disaster and for a single second, Crowley feels something like raw power. The moment is gone as quickly as it came and he gives Aziraphale a tired smile.

“I don’t know how this works for you, but I really need to go to sleep again. I have class tomorrow morning.”

Crowley doesn’t have any more dreams that night. Or ever.


	5. time on my hands could be time spent with you

It’s hard to hear the lyrics of the song being played, the bass is a little too strong for Crowley’s liking. The party is pretty nice, though. Crowley thinks he knows the girl whose flat they’re all at from a class on Edgar Allan Poe and the history of detective stories but he really isn’t sure. She might be the one who always keeps an extra pen in her bag because of the time when he’d forgotten his. Or that might have been someone else entirely, sometimes everybody starts to look the same

He has a glass of _the best vegan red wine you can get for under a fiver _in his hand, his legs are stretched out, feet propped up on someone else’s armrest, showing off his trusted and most beautiful pair of ripped skinny jeans. They’re black, in an inky sort of way, like you’d expect them to start dripping and leaking on the floor soon. He doesn’t even remember buying them if he’s being honest, he wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if it turns out they just appeared in his closet one day.

He ruffles through his hair and takes a look around the room. He has to admit it’s getting really long but he wants to live that _long and curly hair _life for a little more before he cuts it off again. He finds it makes him look more androgynous. And it’s always fun for some hair-pulling action in bed.

Crowley feels his trademark lazy grin tugging on his mouth and downs his wine in one go. It’s not half bad, really. When he sets his glass down on the nearest flat surface he can find, a table that’s already completely covered in drinks, he feels someone’s eyes on him. He can sense it in the corner of his eye, there’s definitely someone watching him, but he doesn’t feel like putting in the effort to turn his head. Instead he throws back his head to show off his neck and lets his eyes fall shut. He’s in the mood to be captured tonight. Let someone else come to him, do all the work, say all the right things, take him home. He wants to be just along for the ride. He can tell there’s a body in front of him now, can feel the new presence and he sways his head to the music.

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale. His eyes snap open.

“Angel,” Crowley smiles, surprised and intrigued. “So you’re back then?” His voice always gets different when he’s been drinking even a little, it’s smooth where it wasn’t before and he says things he usually doesn’t. It could also have to do with the couple of drags he’d taken earlier, maybe half an hour ago, when someone had dropped a joint in hand. His head feels lighter than ever before, he’s warm and _so _calm. He thinks he’d like to melt into the carpet under his chair.

Aziraphale nods, slowly. He looks almost more beautiful than when Crowley first saw him; his skin, his curls, his lips are truly angelic, something to marvel at. He may just get lost staring at him if he isn’t careful, there’s something lurking inside Aziraphale that threatens to drag him under if they’re too close for too long. He remembers how he’d seen him before, at the funeral, a stranger creeping at the edges of Crowley’s life, transparent and ethereal.

“I am,” he confirms, unnecessarily, and with a little smile.

Then he reaches out to touch Crowley’s hair, strokes a hand over his cheekbone, trails two fingers along his throat and finally leans against the headrest so that his arm is right next to his face. Crowley licks his lips and stares at Aziraphale expectantly. There’s electricity where their skin has touched and he can’t get enough of it, wants more from him, so much more, but has no idea if he’s allowed to take it.

“You look nice tonight,” he offers with a smile. Crowley hums, thoughtful.

“Is that all?” He rubs a finger over his eyebrow, a controlled move that Aziraphale watches like a hawk. It does something weird to Crowley’s stomach, something between arousal and fear, between lust and panic. He feels flattered, yet terrified.

Aziraphale shakes his head. “I think I found something. I’m not fully convinced it’s what I was looking for, though. I can show you in the morning, if you want.”

Crowley sighs. It’s been four weeks since Aziraphale had shown up at the foot of his bed, four weeks since the dreams had stopped, four weeks since Crowley had woken up to an empty room besides a note on the floor, four weeks since he’d started spending every single second lying in wait. And going to parties with people he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before. Just what life is like.

** _My dear_ ** **,**

** _Please forgive me for leaving so suddenly and so soon after we’ve finally laid eyes on each other, but I feared there would be no point in me bothering you any further before one of us had any answers. I think perhaps I know where to search for the right books that could help us in this situation and I’ll do anything in my (albeit limited) powers to solve this confusing mystery. I hope I won’t be too long, love. I promise, I’ll be back soon. Au revoir, _ **

** _Your Angel _ **

_What a pretentious twat_, he’d thought and rushed to class. When he had gotten back, he’d read it again. And then again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again. It’s been the first thing he’d looked at in the morning and the last thing before bed. He’s going a little crazy with longing, with the need to see him again, to verify he didn’t just dream up their encounter and wrote the note himself. It’s nice to see him again, to give the part of his brain a rest that’s been holding out for Aziraphale.

Now, Crowley carefully takes Aziraphale’s hand off the headrest and laces their fingers together. He remembers that he painted his nails blood red last night and turns their hands so that Aziraphale’s is on top and he can see the colour. It’s all so _nice_. He feels tipsy and he likes holding hands. It doesn’t mean anything. Not even the way Aziraphale’s eyes seem to shine brighter and his lips look redder and plumper in light of the dimmed down lamps; nothing means anything anymore.

“In the morning,” says Crowley softly. “Does that mean we can enjoy the night first?” He doesn’t really know what he’s insinuating, doesn’t know anything except that his mind thinks Aziraphale is the single prettiest thing his eyes have ever seen. It’s screaming at him to make a move but he can’t hear it through the hazy fog of _quiet _and _peaceful _and _serene _and _lazy _and _calm_. Crowley looks up and sees Aziraphale grin down at him. His teeth seem to sparkle. They look ready to bite.

“Of course.” His eyes flicker to Crowley’s empty glass where there’s a smudge of lipstick he’d applied hours ago on the rim, and he licks his lips. “What are you drinking?” he asks.

Crowley stretches and shrugs, slowly, then he sighs.

“_Blood_,” he says, conspirationally, just to see what happens. Aziraphale awakes something in him, a primal curiosity from deep within that scares and excites him in equal parts.

“Really? How do you find the taste?” Aziraphale stares at him. It’s intense and uncomfortable. His eyes are unforgiving in their blueness, deep and hard and full of expectation.

Crowley can feel his brows drawing together. “I haven’t… decided. Yet.”

Aziraphale hums. “I’ll help you figure it out, then.”

Then he leans down to give Crowley a taste of something else.


	6. laughin’ like children, livin’ like lovers, rollin’ like thunder under the covers

Aziraphale tastes like honey and like smoke, like sugar and coffee, like caramel sauce and crunchy popcorn, like mint and like chillies, like death, like sunshine, like tears and like being reborn to start a new life. Crowley can’t get enough, needs to get a refill of the nectar that springs from inside his lips every few seconds. His skin smells of lavender and sage, of old forgotten books with yellowed pages and newly printed ones, so fresh you can still smear the ink – jet black and ocean blue – on the pages, of daisies and dandelions and daffodils and dahlias, of beauty and of pain.

Crowley keeps his nose pressed keeps his nose pressed to Aziraphale’s throat because that’s where the smell is at its strongest. It’s like he’s trying to soak it all up, devour him whole, consume him so entirely there’s nothing left. Aziraphale is delicious and Crowley’s always had a sweet tooth. He’s also always had a thing for pretty boys. This is just indulging in all of his fantasies. There’s so much of, Aziraphale, his thighs spread so far when he’s laid out like this, his belly soft and round and _perfect_, his neck long and thick, and Crowley can’t believe he’s allowed to take it all in.

Crowley bites and sucks and kisses and is bitten, sucked and kissed in return. He makes it his mission to explore every bit of skin, to draw out every kind of sound Aziraphale has in his repertoire, to take him apart in any way he knows. It seems that Aziraphale’s doing the same thing to him, and the results feel glorious. It’s like being touched by light itself, floating on top of a cloud, looking down at the earth from up above. Something in Crowley feels like a god, like this is what he deserves.

It’s never been like this before, so intense and overwhelming, every touch feels addictively electric, like a step into a world filled with magic and miracles. Crowley discovers that Aziraphale’s curls are perfect for burying his hands in them, that his thighs are the right kind of silky to leave hickeys and bruises shaped like his fingers behind, that his lips look even more out of this world when they’re kiss-harried and teeth-scratched, spit-soaked, and, by the end of it, come-stained. His cheeks must have been made to blush like this, they’re full and rosy and crimson at the same time, looking like a saint and the devil all at once. He’s marvellous, Crowley is in awe of every little detail:

There’s the way his breath hitches ever so slightly whenever Crowley squeezes the tiniest bit harder, how his eyes flitter from Crowley to the ceiling when it’s too much and he feels too_ good_, how his impatient fingers rip through any garment that stands between him and Crowley being naked, his unforgiving fingernails that come closer and closer to drawing blood; there’s not a single thing he doesn’t cherish.

They’re completely in-sync, touching and groping and pulling at each other like it’s all they’ve ever done. He doesn’t really feel like questioning why Aziraphale is so good at this but it’s hard to ignore. Do angels have sex in their realm? How often has he done this, how many have come before Crowley, have been seduced by this impossible, heavenly creature, this bittersweet demon that hides behind clever words and innocent blue eyes, always alert and ready to attack its prey? Crowley doesn’t mind being wanted like this, he really _really _doesn’t mind. Not one bit. He makes sure to show Aziraphale he’s being hunted too, he flips them over ever so often, crawls up and down his body with a feral grin, lets the animal inside do whatever the fuck it wants. 

The glass of wine paired with the little weed he had earlier doesn’t even compare, Crowley feels proper drunk on this beautiful boy_, his angel_. He’s completely hammered, wasted, intoxicated like he’s been transported to another level of reality, they’re on an entirely different plane of existence. It’s better, here, in the land of passion and desire, where nothing counts but the way their bodies move against each other and what secret words leave their lips when they can’t help but cry out. 

It’s way too much and not nearly enough and just. right.

Aziraphale looks prettiest when he lets himself get lost in the moment, when the bliss of pleasure takes over. When he comes, violently yet tender, his face reduced to an expression of pure ecstasy, and he shoots his load all over Crowley’s stomach, then he grins wickedly and leans forward to lick it all up. Crowley groans, strokes over the head of his prick once, twice, three times, and is lost in his own orgasm. Aziraphale kisses him through it, licks at Crowley’s tongue, bites down hard on both of their lips until there’s blood mixed in with the taste of them together.

He finds that Aziraphale likes having his nipples played with, that nothing will get him screaming like he does when his knees get tickled and that he likes it when Crowley gets a little rough, but properly _melts_ into the sweet kisses, the ones full of adoration and promises. Crowley wouldn’t describe his regular sexual encounters as _meaningless _but they’re always casual and without any obligations, and they do lack the distinct flavour of emotional investment he’s currently experiencing. Usually it’s only about having a good time, but this, this feels more like making a deal with the devil. This kind of treat doesn’t cone without a cost. He just hopes he can enjoy the ride as much as possible before he has to start paying for it.

Crowley comes three times that night, Aziraphale five. After a while, it all becomes a haze of skin and sweat and tongues and fingers and holes and over-sensitive cocks still rubbing together. Then they just lie there, slowly making out, their mouths still hungry even when the rest of their bodies only want to rest. Crowley’s fingers are lost in Aziraphale’s hair and Aziraphale’s hand is a heavy presence on Crowley’s throat. It’s very poetic. In its own way. Crowley never wants it to stop.

Inevitably, it does. 


	7. just stare into space, picture my face in your hands

The next morning is both more and less awkward than Crowley would have expected. When he opens his eyes, there’s a body pressed to his back, warm and homely. Everything smells like sweat and vanilla. And a little like come. It’s not something he’s used to but he has to admit, it’s very nice. Especially because it brings back memories of what they got up to last night. Crowley smiles. Then he starts thinking.

Does this mean angels need sleep, too? It would make sense, he guesses, since any creature must get their energy from somewhere. But do they need food as well? Or shouldn’t they get their energy differently, isn’t God there to provide them with it?

Oh. Crowley realises he hasn’t given much thought to this – or any at all really, to the question whether Aziraphale’s existence means that God is real, too. Bit of a weird thought, that he might get a definitive answer to that now. Crowley’s neither religious nor is he _not _religious. He has never quite gotten the hang of atheism, if he’s being honest but Christianity has too many flaws both in theory and in practice that he doesn’t really care for it either. He can’t say it hasn’t shaped his life and worldview, though, at least a little bit. It’s kind of hard to escape it. 

Crowley turns around to look at him, maybe catch a glance at his sleeping face but he finds Aziraphale wide awake, with a secretive little smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Morning,” he mumbles and strokes a piece of Crowley’s hair behind his ear.

“Hi,” Crowley says, testing out the waters. He leans forward, slowly, makes sure not to take his eyes off Aziraphale’s lips and, when there isn’t any rejection, he kisses him. It’s very domestic, with their tongues dripping morning breath, their bodies not ready for the day yet but eager to get started with it nonetheless.

It’s almost a new sensation for Crowley, kissing without any afterthought, just making out because they feel like it, for no reason but the sake of it. Aziraphale’s mouth feels like it’s become even softer since Crowley last got a chance to taste it, his tongue quicker and his teeth sharper than before. He can’t say he minds.

After a while, there’s a hand on Crowley’s chest and Aziraphale pushes him away with a sigh.

“Perhaps we should talk?” he says while sitting up. Crowley nods.

“Alright.” He reaches over to the nightstand and picks up a scrunchie, then ties his hair back with a few practised moves. “What did you find?” he asks when he’s done.

Aziraphale scratches his cheek, licks his lips, and starts:

“There’s a bookshop in London that’s known for providing its customers with _peculiar _works, if they know where to look and what to say. Which I do. Now, it wasn’t easy and it did take quite a while but eventually, I discovered a book about… a _similar case_. Something like this has happened before, only different. From what I could gather there’s a phenomenon that takes place when beings are created at the same time and their- their core, their essence, or soul or whatever you want to call it, is so alike that something goes wrong and a piece or two break off and switch places. So it can happen that those two end up in different realms but with a part of the other’s soul. And to complete the missing parts, to make the puzzle whole again, their souls cry out for each other, across worlds, to be reunited. That’s why I’m here, the pull was too strong to resist, because we share something that no one else does. Our souls are intertwined.”

Crowley swallows, audibly.

“That sounds…,” he struggles to find the right word. His mind feels jumbled and a bit like it’s been boiled. “Intense.”

Aziraphale nods. “It is, believe me. It’s very intense, in fact.”

Crowley frowns. “But wait.” He pauses to think. “Didn’t you say this has never happened before? I definitely remember you saying that. So it _has _happened? When exactly? I’m sorry, this is all very confusing.” Aziraphale stares at him, doesn’t speak, doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t move at all. Then he seems to shake out of his trance and gives Crowley shrug. 

“I suppose I did say that, my mistake,” he starts. “There was a woman called Agnes Nutter, she lived and died a couple of centuries ago, and she had the same sort of dreams you did. Eventually, she managed to secure a proper connection to my realm. So she entered it and there, she learned all the answers to any of her questions but she was only human, so she couldn’t sustain the alien energy and it spit her out again. When she came back home, she wrote it all down and published a book. It wasn’t successful, of course, but it’s an interesting read for someone who needs answers as badly as she did. I tracked it down. Now it’s up to you to decide where to go from here.”

“Do you have it?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale looks confused. “What?”

“The book,” he says, eyebrows raised and mouth tight.

“Oh, of course. I mean, no. Uh,” he swallows, “_of course_ that’s what you mean, but no, I couldn’t take it with me. Sorry.”

Crowley nods, slowly. “I think I need… some time. To let all this sink in, I mean. This sounds really fucked up and, don’t get me wrong, I usually like fucked up things but this might be too much, even for me. Can you give me a while? Alone?” His voice sounds unsure, especially to his own ears. Crowley has no idea what to do, where to begin thinking about everything. He can feels his mind running a mile a minute, a headache is already forming behind his temples, he feels exhausted to the bone even though he just woke up.

There’s an apologetic look on Aziraphale’s face and he shrugs with one shoulder. “I can give you whatever you desire, my dear,” he says with an intense glint in his eyes that would make Crowley’s knees weak if he wasn’t sitting on a bed. “If it’s for me to leave again, then I will, but I would prefer if we could find a way to work it out together. It’s not just you who feels overwhelmed by all of this. I thought you understood that.”

Crowley buries his face in his hands. “I’m sorry.” He sighs and looks at Aziraphale again. “I don’t want you to think I don’t care about your feelings in all of this but you seem so collected and knowledgeable and I feel like you just know what to do. Like I don’t have to… _worry _about you and so I only worry about myself. I realise that’s selfish.” He nods, more to himself than anything else. “Maybe let’s do something together instead? Spend time, get to know our _soulmate _or whatever. Become friends.”

Aziraphale lets out a snort. He smiles, “I think it’s a bit late for that, we might be past _friends _already, aren’t we?” He bites his lips all virgin-shy and sex-hungry at the same time, tries not to cast an obvious look towards Crowley’s groin, blushes that gorgeous shade of red. Crowley groans and kisses him without preamble. Something about focusing on those lips for too long makes him go crazy, his brain short-circuits, his thoughts run out like oil leaving a leaking tanker, until there’s only one left which consists of his mind screaming at him to touch them with his own.

They spend an hour making out before they’re ready to continue the conversation. 


	8. live for each second without hesitation

It’s kind of nice, at first, living like this. Together, getting to know each other’s little quirks, giving a little bit of domesticity a try. Some days, Crowley comes home after class to find a freshly cooked dinner on the stove and two glasses of wine he’s absolutely sure he never bought on the table, some days Aziraphale is sprawled out on the floor, surrounded by books that disappear with the snap of his fingers once Crowley enters his bedroom and some days, all that awaits him is an empty flat filled with nothing but his flowers.

Crowley likes it, enjoys knowing there’s someone else in his life, a constant. He’s never had a boy- or girlfriend and he wouldn’t necessarily call Aziraphale that but it does feel like he has a _significant other _now. They even have their own version of date nights; from time to time, Crowley will introduce Aziraphale to human pop culture. He’s particularly fond of romantic comedies and Elton John songs and Crowley supposes that that’s a good match as any to his own love for Indie dramas and Queen. Aziraphale is a very quick learner when it comes to human behaviour and it’s a lot easier to go out in public with him than Crowley had originally thought, he shows him around university and the café he works at, takes him to all of his favourite bookshops in the city, brings him to the park where he likes to go feed ducks when he needs time to think. It's all very sweet. 

They don’t have sex again. They don’t even kiss much, except for a few times when the tension between them grows too thick to breathe properly, when desire pools hot and viscous like lava in Crowley’s stomach, when it feels like the only thing they’ve been wanting to do all day is push their tongues down the other’s throat. Most of the time though, Aziraphale seems to do all he can to make sure their touches stay casual and unassuming. It would be frustrating, if it wasn’t exactly what Crowley wants, to keep a distance between them, not grow too attached. Something about Aziraphale still bothers him, like an itch he can’t get rid of, a nagging at the back of his head, a blurry shape at the corner of his eyes he can’t be certain he really ever saw. Something just doesn’t add up.

Crowley can tell Aziraphale’s hiding something. They talk all the time, he tells Crowley all about angels and where he’s from and what his life used to be like (Crowley finds out that there is, in fact, a God, but – in Aziraphale’s words – _she’s nothing like you humans imagine her to be_), what it felt like to be pulled into this world, and to finally be reunited, but it always feels like only the tip of a massive iceberg. Sometimes, he starts to say something and then stops himself, mid-sentence, as though he realises it’s a bad idea to keep talking about it. When Crowley asks, tries to get some answers out of him, he’s so quick to change the subject that it’s giving him whiplash.

It’s not exactly a great feeling, knowing you’re being lied to. Crowley’s suddenly uneasy around Aziraphale, he feels watched and examined whenever he turns his back, like there’s something probing at his brain, trying to figure out what’s going on inside. Aziraphale’s touches stop being reassuring and start feeling more like electric shocks. Crowley isn’t scared of him, that’s no what this is, but there’s definitely a new kind of tension, a bad one, it feels rotten and dirty and ominous.

“Can I ask you something?” says Crowley one day, when the analysis he’s working on is starting to bore him and the really curious part of his mind is taking over.

Aziraphale looks up from the book on female philosophers he’s been reading for two days and lets out an affirmative hum.

“What’s with the eyes?” Crowley scoots closer to him on the carpet. Aziraphale’s eyebrows go up, there’s a cute confused look on his face. Crowley smiles, a little bashful. “I mean, what do they stand for, or _represent_? Why did I see eyes in my dreams exactly? It has to mean something, doesn’t it?” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale grins. “It’s- in a way it’s my true form. How we really look, not this disguise I fabricated to appear human. We’re not just one big eye, though, we’re more like… made up of them. But also of wings and teeth and tentacles and rings of fire, that kind of thing. Quite monstrous, in fact. Not a very pretty sight.”

Crowley licks his lips, he’s not sure if it’s a conscious decision or what his body wants him to do. “Can I see? C-can you show me what you really look like?” He holds his breath until he can see Aziraphale’s grin widen.

“Of course, my dear boy. You only had to ask.”

The transformation happens too fast for Crowley to see very much of the process. All he can take in is that the body in front of him grows bigger and wider, becomes less defined, less distinct and starts looking like something straight out of a fever dream. Aziraphale is magnificent like this, so huge and beautiful, but the beauty comes from the raw power he exudes, from the alienness of his true appearance, the strangeness that Crowley feels so drawn to. He’s known for a while now that, really, he’s just a moth and Aziraphale is his flame.

He was right, Crowley can see eyes and wings and teeth and tentacles and blood and fire and light and darkness and everything he’s ever dreamed of seeing, all at once.

WHAT DO YOU THINK?

The sensation is so foreign, the voice seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. Crowley remembers that this has happened before, once, in the dream before Aziraphale entered his life. He smiles, fascinated.

DO I PLEASE YOU LIKE THIS?

Crowley nods jerkily, he is beyond pleased. He feels aroused, feels blessed, this is his communion and _only his_ because no one else on earth has ever seen what he is looking at right now and it gives him a thrill like nothing else could. He feels drunk on worship and something suspiciously close to love, on the desire to claim this marvelous being as his own in every possible way and the knowledge that he’s Aziraphale’s in return, that he’s always been, always will be. 

He’s not sure he can ever get enough of this.

It all comes crashing down one day when Crowley honestly least expects it. Aziraphale is being unusually affectionate, but right now it makes him feel more content than alarmed, really. They’re spending a lazy Sunday morning in bed, Crowley has a day off from work and isn’t particularly eager to start writing any of the essays his classes require, so procrastinating and wasting time like this, cuddling and swapping kisses every now and then when staring at each other’s face starts to feel weird, seems like a good option.

Eventually, Crowley has to get up. His fridge is on its way to being empty, his plants need watering and he’s made plans to pick up a forgotten phone charger at a friend’s place today. He leaves Aziraphale in his bed when he goes to put on clothes, slips inside the first pair of faux-leather trousers he can find, and throws on an oversized _The Clash_ t-shirt that’s definitely seen better days and that he should probably think about washing sometime soon. Absentmindedly, he takes the watering pot from its spot on the shelf and walks over to the row of flowers that embellish his window sills, when – without warning – Aziraphale says something that makes Crowley stop dead in his tracks.

“You’ve always loved plants.”

He whips around to find Aziraphale smiling softly at him, it’s fond and warm and sweet, cloyingly so, like honey dripping into a cup of hot milk, completely unaware of the tumult taking place in Crowley’s head, the tumult that _he_ just started.

“What… what do you mean?” He takes a careful step towards the bed, watering pot still in hand, and keeps his eyes trained on Aziraphale. “I’ve_ always loved_ plants?” He tries to keep his voice as steady as he can, tries not show any outward sign of the uproar that’s going on inside of him. he’s so confused, doesn’t understand what’s going on, what Aziraphale is talking about, why his body is reacting that way, but he knows this feels _wrong_, so very wrong, like waking up from a bad dream, covered in sweat and frightened out of your mind, only to realise you’re still trapped in a nightmare, but this one just feels so much more real. It’s the same bitter feeling at the back of his throat he used to get from his dreams, in fact, but amplified, stronger and more powerful now because now everything is real, isn’t it?

Aziraphale looks like he’s been caught. Crowley couldn’t describe what exactly it is about him that gives off this impression, he can just _tell_. It’s in his eyes, in the line of his mouth, in his hands that lie folded on top of the blanket they both slept under, in the tiniest little twitch of his ears. Everything screams the word guilty at Crowley.

“I…,” he tries to start, interrupts himself, swallows once and then a second time, opens his mouth again, seems to rethink it and finally stutters, “I just meant in the dreams. I saw you and we shared visions of our lives and I- I’ve seen how much time you always spend with your plants and I- that’s all I’m saying.”

Crowley doesn’t believe a single word.

“Don’t lie to me,” he takes another step forward, “Tell me what you’re really talking about.” Aziraphale sits up and shakes his head. 

“I’m not lying,” he whispers, frantically, looks everywhere but at Crowley’s face. His eyes are full of desperation but Crowley doesn’t trust his appearance anymore.

“Tell me what’s going on,” he says, voice harder than it’s ever been before. “Did you know me before any of this happened? What are you hiding?”

Aziraphale looks angry and conflicted and apologetic and sad and hurt and scared, all at the same time. His brows furrow and he flares his nostrils. He stares at the ground. “I’m so, so stupid. You forgot everything so well. You weren’t supposed to find out. Especially not like this.” 


	9. and never forget I’m your man

It takes Crowley a while to get Aziraphale to talk. He’s reluctant, hesitant, remains silent at first. So, Crowley gives up and leaves the apartment, buys food and drops by his friend’s place, does everything his brain is telling him he should but he can’t concentrate on anything but Aziraphale. He almost misses him already, he’s been gone two hours at most but some part of his mind yearns for him constantly. _Your soul_, a voice in his head whispers but he doesn’t believe that any part of the soulmates story was ever true. Instead, he feels dirty and used.

When he comes home, the first thing he does is take a shower. Clean himself on the outside while his insides stay tainted. He only looks at Aziraphale after he’s finished and enters his bedroom. It doesn’t seem as though he’s even moved a single muscle since Crowley left. He sits down next to him, cross-legged, his hair dripping water everywhere. Then he waits. 

“You’re right,” says Aziraphale eventually, with a drawn-out sigh, like he’s ready to begin telling a long story. “I haven’t been honest with you. The truth is, I really do know you. Have known you – or of you – for centuries. You’re not just an ordinary human, and I _know_ you have no reason to trust me or anything I say anymore and I’m also aware that this must sound very much unbelievable to you, but you, my dear Crowley, are an angel just as I am one.”

Crowley doesn’t say anything in response. He doesn’t want to engage in this, doesn’t want to make Aziraphale think that he can be convinced via another stupid made-up tale, that he’s willing to be drawn into whatever this is, whatever this whole mess truly turns out to be.

“I promise, I swear on everything that I am, on my very soul that I’m telling you nothing but the truth right now. You were- you used to be a glorious angel, you were one of the mightiest. Everyone admired you for your willpower and your beauty and your dedication. Whatever you touched simply blossomed, it had no choice. And you were so fond of every life you released into the world, every part of nature you helped to bring into existence. Especially the plants, I remember that. You loved them very dearly, the flowers and the trees, bushes and types of grass, everything was unique and worthy of your adoration. But then, one day you started to become _curious_ and all of a sudden you wanted to find out more about other universes, about the realm of the humans, you wanted to see what life was like for those less powerful beings, the ones that we create and watch over. You said it wasn’t right or just that we- that _she_ uses her forces like this. Making life appear at her will and then letting it go without guidance. And once those ideas had taken hold of you… you didn’t want to continue the way life had always been for us. Instead you tried to riot, tried to convince others but in the end you were alone and you stood there, all alone, and she-,” Aziraphale stops and swallows, his face so full of sadness that Crowley can feel it deep in his bones.

“What happened?” he whispers. It’s like he’s forgotten his distrust entirely, every word that comes out of Aziraphale’s mouth shakes him to his core, suddenly it’s scripture and he’s devout, this conversation feels sacred, yet blasphemous.

“You were cast out. Banned. Forced to be reborn as a human, she thought it a fitting punishment. But you were so strong, she couldn’t take away all of your power. And so you still have a connection to your former life, your soul really did call out to me in a way, I didn’t make that up completely. But it’s because I was assigned to you, my task was to observe and report what you got up to here on earth. To keep an eye on you but also to explain away everything strange that’s been happening to you. Eventually, most of the other angels lost interest, they believe you became just another human, unremarkable and not worth paying attention to. Crowley,_ I_ can see who you really are. And it may have started out as a mission but now that we’ve grown close I think you made me fall in love with you. And I know you still have so much power inside of you, if you want you can rise up again.”

Crowley blinks, slowly. “Let’s say I believe you,” he starts, then stops himself. “No, you know what, I do believe you. You showed me the realm of angels once before and now that I know everything, I swear it felt familiar. That’s why seeing your true form felt like such a revelation, because it was, it was me seeing who I am as well as seeing all of you. But, at the end of the day, I don’t remember, not a single thing, really. My memories are gone and so is most of my power, I’m really just human now. And that’s okay, I think. I’m sorry if this is disappointing to you but I like my life how it is and I don’t want to go back to something I didn’t actually know I was a part of.”

He bites his lip. Aziraphale nods and takes one of his hands in his own. He laces their fingers together and strokes his thumb over Crowley’s once, twice, three tines. Then he speaks again, “That’s fine. I can’t say I’m not disappointed although I didn’t have a lot of expectations in the first place. All I wanted was to see you again. And here I am. So… what do you say about the other thing?”

Crowley smiles a little. “That you think you’re in love with me? I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “_I_ think we still don’t know each other all that well. Part of it might be because you lied to me, but somehow I’m not even mad.” He puts his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder and presses a kiss to his cheek, still so soft and pretty.

“I guess we can figure it all out together, can't we?” 

**Author's Note:**

> Oof idk what to say, thanks for reading? 
> 
> This took me a while to write and I gotta be honest, I‘m not all that happy with it. but I know that if I don‘t post it now I never will so here it is and I hope some people enjoyed it at least :]
> 
> I lowkey want to write an epilogue to this, like a some years down the line kind of thing (or maybe a prologue idk) so if anyone would be interested pls let me know !! (And if not, pls let me know too, Comments and kudos are what feeds my soul and you don’t want to be responsible for it being malnourished, do you?)


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